


Alight

by Laika



Series: Alight/Boy #1 [1]
Category: Super Junior
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, M/M, Pre-debut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-11
Updated: 2009-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laika/pseuds/Laika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a trainee, Sungmin loses a roommate and gains something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alight

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt, somewhat AU: Minhae + predebut + Kangin smoking. Originally posted on Livejournal (a long time ago) and resurrected here for posterity, although I don't write Suju fandom anymore. Part of a kind of series. Any errors are entirely my own.

Prelude (BOY#2)  
\---

  
"Just maintaining my voice," he'd grin, blowing acrid factory-fume smoke in my direction, the smell of bus terminals and seedy bars. It would cling to my clothes for days, on my skin, making  me jumpy. He means his gravelly voice, of course, abrasive but in a good way. Because that was the worst fate we could imagine: becoming cookie-cutter. And from there - obsolete.   
  
Desperately clinging to our shred of fame, we had big plans. Fading into the background wasn't on our agenda. Kangin with his weird juxtaposition of baby fat and killer pecs, peeking out of low cut shirts. (I mean, what the fuck? But it got their attention.) And me, well - I was told I had this fresh-faced nubile thing going for me. And we were crossing our fingers hoping that our Pygmalion would pick our barely post-pubescent selves out of a crowd of back-up dancers and give us a new life, a new image. And if we could be singing while doing it, well, that would be the icing on the cake. The first step was getting noticed. That was everything.  
  
There were rules, though, discussed during late night liaisons in our shared room, when we were sick of ingratiating ourselves with the "right" people, and sick to _death_ of ourselves. You had to be good. Smile pretty, play nice. Be home by bedtime.  Because once you were kicked out of the dorm, you may as well kiss your prospective career in professional self-exploitation goodbye.  
  
"Underage delinquency doesn't sell," he'd proclaimed too-loudly to the ceiling, fueled by alcohol procured as if by magic. "You just have to stay good until you're indisposable. Then you can do whatever the fuck you want." I remember now - this was a specific lecture. I remember bouncing balled socks off of the top of his head, annoyed that he was the one chastising  _me._  
  
"Or  _whoever_  you want," he'd suggested, and then laughed.  
  
Didn't stop him from smoking, though. Hypocrite.  
  
Unlikely friends, I guess people would call us. Me anxiously peering around corners, sheltered in the vaulted hallways of alleys in between studios. Play stupid in case you were caught. Doe-eyed, deer-in-headlights, "I swear, officer! I had nothing to do with it!" Let your lower lip tremble a little. That was my bag of tricks.  
  
Kangin leaning against the bricks, smoke venting from between lips drawling gossip, words and carcinogens dissipating in the air. I guess I'm not really listening. "You know the guy. Older than us." I nod absently. "With great fucking cheekbones. Man." I cock an eyebrow. "You know what I mean. Like, I'm talking bone structure. An aesthetically pleasing arrangement of features." He's so fucking weird. I inch down the bricks until I'm crouching. Graffiti speaks to me in hieroglyphics and primary colors.  
  
"But not in a gay way," He adds pointedly, and exhales in a perfect O. O for  _obviously_ . Whatever you say, Kangin.  
  
Because that's my particular crime, not his.  
  
The thing between us, I'd call it a boycrush. Nothing ever came of it, and believe me, I never expected it to. Instead it was laying on the grass at the park near the dorms, pulling up fistfuls of grass and daydreaming that one day I would be able to wipe the cutesy pout off my face for good and Kangin could continue being Kangin - that is to say, way too full of himself and a complete dork - except maybe minus 100 bicep curls a day or whatever the fuck it was that he did to make management look twice. And one day, we could be in the same band and sing and not try so hard.  
  
And then he fucked it all up. Although in doing so, he served his replacement up to me on a silver platter.  
  
\---  
  
What did they call it? Oh, right.   
  
"Promiscuity."  
  
Tantamount to murder, as far as management was concerned. That's what got me kicked out of my dorm and into a new one.  
  
Well, really it was Kangin smoking. But I already had a record.  
  
"Really, Mr. Lee. We expect more from you." It's more embarrassing than actually getting caught in the act all those months ago, having a forty-something woman bringing up, yet again, my "promiscuity". Another disapproving frown at my apparent lack of remorse. The only thing I did wrong this time was failure to report my roommate for illegal activities. Yet here we go again.  
  
"We have certain standards of behavior, and let me remind you that your sponsorship here is purely conditional." Thin lips compress into a thinner line. This is it. Dreams dashed to pieces. I'm too resigned to even feel loss. "As a result, we feel it is imperative -"   
  
Oh, Jesus.  _Imperative._  I will never sing in Seoul again. I will never do anything ever.   
  
"- to transfer you to another dorm."   
  
And I blink once, twice, and stare at her beaming beatifically at me, and realize again - the cuteness factor has saved me. It is my ability to cause preteen panties to combust and not pure, unadulterated talent that keeps me at SM. Even now, the woman is offering me that  condescendingly saccharine smile, like she has singlehandedly averted disaster, or saved a drowning kitten. It's all chemicals. Hormones flooding her power-suit-wearing, smoothie-drinking self even now are screaming for her to protect  _me._  
  
It was still a small-scale apocalypse. My best-friend-by-default, Kangin, suddenly ripped from my grasps. Sets off the smoke detector in the bathroom once and I'm the one thrown to the wolves of a new dorm. It was getting noticed, but not in a good way.  
  
"Your new roommate was chosen because we feel that he will be a very good influence on you. We trust that you will follow his example." And she continues to smile at me, because she feels that she has done me the world's biggest favour, which, I will grudgingly admit, she has.  
  
The end of one world, beginning of another.  
  
  
  
The Main Attraction (AKA Donghae, Boy #3)  
  
 _Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, edgy and blunt  
Put a six inch valley through the middle of my soul  
  
Oh, at night I lay at home with the sheets soaking wet  
And a freight train running through the middle of my head  
  
But you.. you cool my desire  
Oh, I'm on fire_  
  
Strangely enough, the first time I even looked at Donghae was at least two weeks after we had become roommates. Not that he hadn't been around.  
  
Distraught, I'd wander from class to class to studio to dormroom to bed, where I would curl up and try to sleep away my self pity. I learned secondhand that our days dreaming of duets were over when Kangin was chosen for some band, something about the elements or whatever, and there was no fucking way I could compete with drop-dead-gorgeous pretty boy bitches like Kim Heechul and Kim Jaejoong. I was born under the wrong star - or the wrong last name, apparently.    
  
Checking my phone compulsively, but all I get is cryptic replies. Display flashing in the dark, a distress signal.  
  
 _sup  
  
haha cool_  
  
I want to die; I guess it shows.  
  
Looking in the mirror, the circles and hollows blur into deep-purple twilit shadows, and I barely recognize myself -  just a walking warning against Kicked Puppy Syndrome. It's not the end of the world, but try telling that to my fucking reflection. The worst part is knowing that you're pathetic and not being able to stop it.  
  
\---  
  
"You can't seriously wear that." I look down at my outfit. Sure, it's a little academic. Clean-cut is good, right? Everyone owns at least one cardigan, don't they? Okay, maybe he has a point.  He tosses a crumpled ball to me. It flickers midair like a banner. Pink. I like pink.  
  
I pull it on. When I resurface, he's staring at me.  
  
Then Donghae sighs, and waves me over.  His hands, his fingers are long. And then they thread into my hair, lacquer-black like everyone else's, trying to save it from itself. Too short, I know. "You can't just give up on life because things aren't working out for you. You have to work with what you're given," he chides, almost to himself. Off-hand like it doesn't matter. He concentrates on his Herculean task; surprised, I stare into his face for the first time. He's pretty cute.   
  
Then he catches me looking and his smile takes up 98% of his face. And I change my mind completely - he's fucking gorgeous. But his hands are shaking, and I realize that it's probably because of my reputation. I tend to alienate straight boys. "Of course I know. Everyone knows," Donghae says, and he makes a face that's a cross between a grimace and a wince. And then he untucks my shirt, fingers pressing sticky-hot against my hipbones for a split-second, and I realize that it's definitely my reputation - but not for the reasons you would think. But I'm not a slut. Jesus, you fuck one of your  friends once and the wrong person hears about it and suddenly you're fair game and out of a  friend or even _two_ -  
  
"I didn't say that either. Just 'cause I know that you like guys doesn't mean that I'm automatically hitting on you, " he scoffs. My heart falls a little, and he takes a step back. At least half the cells in my body try to follow him. And then he looks at me. His smile is shy but his eyes are honest. And that's it.  _Coup de foudre._  
  
"I mean, knowing helps, but it's not like  _not_ knowing would've stopped me," he smiles.  
  
Oh, how inconstant my fucking heart is.  
  
\---  
  
"Drink this." I make a face. Mandarin orange? "It's good for you. Pulp and everything. So that you don't get scurvy." Because that would just make my fucking week.   
  
Some days I want him so bad I can almost taste it. The salty sting of boysweat on the tip of my tongue, citrus-sweet flavoured saliva. But if we hooked up and someone found out, it would be the final iceberg in the turbulent waters of my uncertain fate. The last death-rattle-romance of my short-lived shot at fame and fortune. Something as transient as love, lust, whatever you call it - it's just not worth it. Been there, done that, and look where it's got me so far.  
  
"Don't look at me like that. You don't get enough vitamins." Cold can pressed against my skin, condensation collected in beads streaking down my shoulder. I suppress a gasp; he suppresses a grin, but just barely. "I mean, scurvy's not gonna impress anybody. At least, not for long." Hand pressed palm down to warm the clammy spot he's left on my arm. "Pretty soon kids are gonna be walking around with fucking ebola just to keep up..."  
  
Eyes like broken mirrors - catching sunlight, reflecting in a million bright fragments, but he's still bad luck. He has to be, with a face like that. And even though I know better, I want him.  
  
But I wonder: Does he take care of me for the sake of saving someone, or in anticipation of the end result? Do I stay broken or try harder?   
  
\---  
  
On the train, my head lolls onto his shoulder. The fingers of his right hand tap absently on my thigh.Tap-tap, pause. Morse code or an imagined melody, I'm not sure.  I wish he would just fucking translate it already - body language will do just fine, thanks. His non-words imprinted into me indefinitely, the more literal the better. Just once, I want something that is mine alone, if only for a half-heartbeat, one combined breath.   
  
 _Kyou wa densha de.._  An incomplete thought in a broken language. My thoughts trail off, my fingers trail along his skin. My head dips, and I yawn.  
  
"Our stop!" He almost wrenches my fucking arm out of its socket and then I'm standing, but not by much, clinging to the front of his coat. The train is going fast, but the interior of the train spins faster. I feel like I'm going to throw up.  
  
He grins. "Gotcha."   
  
Such a fucking jerk. "What do you expect? I'm getting desperate here." It's that smile, with minimal assistance from his arms wrapped around my shoulders, that keeps me from sinking to the floor and fucking  _expiring_ from motion sickness. "Dedicating all my time to making you look less miserable and more happy-teen-idol," he muses. "It's almost impossible."  
  
I can be happy-teen-idol. I can be whatever you want. Just say the magic words.  
  
\---  
  
 _You see the bulletin board this morning?_  
  
Encapsulated in a text message. He stares at me expectantly from his bed, phone still in hand. Glaring groggily, I roll out of bed, narrowly avoiding shoving my cell down his throat. Pad on silent sock feet through the common area, into the hallway, murder traipsing through my thoughts. And on the board, just a stark list of names, black on white on cork on  _oh my god._  
  
My magic words.  
  
So this is what Donghae sounds like with the air knocked out of him, laughing breathlessly as I bury my face in his chest. "It's for real, right?" he's asking me, but I can't even answer. I'm trying to focus on  _not_ screaming like a little girl and getting my hopes up because what SM giveth, it can definitely take away again. Can and has. But I can't help myself. Breathing boyscent, I watch Donghae's eyes, fever-bright with shared relief. I'm so fucking happy I could -  
  
"I hope you don't think I'm trying to take advantage of the timing," he murmurs, "when I say that I really, really think we should have sex now." The worst fucking line of my life. I burst into a peal of laughter.   
  
And, more deplorably, I agree.  
  
\----  
  
So this is what Donghae sounds like when you ghost just the tip of your tongue over the head of his cock, just to see his reaction - a shaky, uncertain rasp of laughter  that sends a liquid-pink shiver of delight straight through me. I feel old, ancient, primal - or way too fucking young, like a puppy. To think that he is mine, if only just this once... And if he changes his mind tomorrow? Well, I have to make it fucking count, don't I? Even if it means getting distracted watching him go to pieces as you run your parted lips down his entire length -  
  
And this is what it's like to have Donghae smile even though you're kissing him sticky-soft with come-glossed lips, and wanting him so bad and praying for his stamina and cursing yourself for being too good at certain skills because if this is it, game over, I would rather just fucking die than endure this need welling up from inside me for another day -  
  
Of course, Donghae never disappoints.  
  
Lips and teeth leave crescents and stars glowing red against my skin, a flight path. Sitting in in his lap on the edge of his bed, his hands on my hips. I let my head tilt back, baring my throat in surrender. Then, shifting - bracing myself against his shoulders, aligning like gearwheels, his lips brushing delicate in sympathy against my face. The abrupt ache is familiar, bittersweet. It's not as bad as he thinks, I promise. Quite the opposite - I arch against him catlike and tense all of the muscles in my body just to feel him better inside me. He gasps, eyelids fluttering, and I laugh, pressing my fingers  to his lips, because as sweet as it is, getting caught again is  _not_ an option.  
  
I roll my hips once to give him the right idea, and then again because I can't help it.  
  
Suddenly, fingers are gripping my thighs. Disorientation, a twinge of pain. Head over heels over head, and I'm pinned down and staring up at him, blood pounding loud in my ears, still locked together with pressure in all the right places. Donghae's smile -  devastating and fluorescent. In nature, creatures this gorgeous are are anathema, aposematic - toxic."You think you're the only one who wanted this, Sungminnie?" He scolds me in sing-song and presses _up. Hard_ . The ceiling blurs. A pathetic whisper-soft whimper that I barely recognize as mine. "Besides, I don't know if you were keeping track, but I'm pretty sure it's my turn to do something for you. Cute that you thought you'd get to be on top, though," he grins, and kisses me ever-so-gently for contrast.  
  
There is no fucking way anyone would ever consider this a fair trade.   
  
Rhythm in his hands, his hips. Of course we're musical creatures - you can hear it in each moan, each sigh - but Donghae is a dancer. And each sweat-slick thrust sets off stars behind my eyes, a tremor  through my body. I can't keep up with him. It feels like I'm on fire - a fever pitch rising in my blood, thundering through my veins, setting me ablaze. His hands are on me and I can't stop him, can't even catch my breath. My fingers pressing pleadingly against his face, but he only smiles. The heat builds, unbearable, searing-white-hot, until I'm begging for release.  
  
" _Sungmin-_ " More breath than substance - the final note, rushing headlong towards the only certain end.   
  
\---  
  
So what happens now?   
  
What I would like to believe is that he means it.   
  
But what I expect is this: "It was just a one-time thing. I'm not really into guys-"  _but the weekly forecast predicts drunken booty-texts in your near future._  Or maybe an,"I'm sorry, I just don't think we could be friends after this-"  _but you're not exactly boyfriend material, either._  Or even worse: near tears, instant regret. "We shouldn't have -"  Boy #1, lily-white and innocent just like you, but when you get caught it doesn't matter - it's still your fault. (Maybe because I enjoyed it too much? Who fucking knows.) Story of my fucking life. Finite outcomes, spread before me like cards. A rapidly dwindling hand of cards. Just pick one. I shouldn't, won't be surprised.  
  
Folded up in my own naked body heat, sunlight spiking blindly through the curtain- a reminder that no matter how badly this turns out, I still have to get up and function. I hear Donghae rummaging around in the background. White noise. If this is my life in the dorms from now on... Well, at least it's quiet, right? Besides, the afterglow lingers, ringing in my ears, humming in my nerve endings. Chemical reassurance, endorphins whispering that it'll all be okay, I promise. Except it's only marginally better than antidepressants, and a fuck of a lot more pathetic.  
  
 A pair of jeans lands crumpled in a heap of denim next to me, followed by a pair of briefs, and the bottom drops out of my stomach."They're your colour," he smirks. Funny, I've never actually been dismissed this way. Get dressed, get out. It's the kind of thing that only happens on TV. That's how I feel right now - ridiculous, reduced to sitcom scenes. But it's still my fucking room, too, and I'm not going anywhere.  
  
A huge sigh that seems to rattle the windows, and he sits down next to me. My gaze stays pinned to the ceiling. And then he says it: "Well,  _that_ was a phenomenally bad idea."  
  
I give him deer in headlights, 'cause that's what I do best. Act pretty and dumb, and pretend it will all go away.  
  
"I mean, you're already tired and it isn't even eight, and we're going to have to celebrate all day..." He pulls me against him, sweat drying on skin sticking to clean-pressed cotton, but he doesn't care. A tiny squeak of pure shock, which he misinterprets. "And sore. Oh, fuck. I'm so sorry, Sungmin." Chin tilted with his thumb to look up at him, that smile - and oh, the feeling surging through me right now is better than endorphins, better than relief. Fuck, better than the orgasm, and that's saying something. Maybe it's because it's a feeling that I seem to be only vaguely acquainted with. Through his palm on my thigh, his lips pressed hot just above my eye, burning warm and bright underneath my skin. Searing electric pure distilled  _happy._   
  
These things don't happen to me. This isn't how it goes. But he kisses me again, tongue flicking out to lap at my lower lip, and _jesus,_  maybe it's actually real. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. Just maybe not so bright and early in the morning next time, hey?"    
  
\---  
  
Things eventually change, as they always do, but it's never the end of the world. Not even close.  
  
"The new kid? All tall and gangly, looks like his mama hasn't let his pants down yet?" I give Donghae a textbook scathing glare over my cup of coffee, but he just laughs. "Cheer up, sunshine. I'm kidding. He has potential. Except he's younger than us." He makes a face. "Well, I  _guess_  that could be fun too. In a way. If you have no other choice." Yeah, don't sound so fucking enthusiastic. But his eyes are elsewhere, on a cluster of people that I'm learning to recognize as my bandmates-  
  
Oh, no way. Not him again. Mr. Great Cheekbones, although my mind autocorrects with  _leader._ And surprise, surprise - Kangin tagging along behind him, because he's still got a thing for him even after all this time, which I duly point out to Donghae. He rolls his eyes. "Oh,  _fuck_ Kangin. Ugh, not literally." He flicks a piece of straw wrapper in my direction, but looks away again. "Like Kangin could even fucking  _compete_  with me." But his brows furrow, and he changes the subject. "Although he is the leader. Does that make him out of bounds?" I follow his gaze. The phrase  _aesthetically pleasing arrangement of features_  runs circles through my head. "Hey, if you're going to start preying on minors, I should be able to get away with it. At least my first choice is fucking legal."  
  
The resulting scuffle leaves me locked with my arms pinned behind my back, my coffee the only real casualty. I say a little requiem for it under my breath, watching it pool around my shoe. Heads turn to look, including those of both of our potential love interests. For the benefit of our audience,  Donghae only inclines his mouth to my ear, breath soft and hot - a memory, a promise. "And if it doesn't work out with either of them, we always have other options, right?"  
  
I smile.  
  
"Always."  
  
Donghae. Everything and exactly opposite of what you expect, a boy contradiction.  
  
Donghae, keeper of my sanity.  
  
  
 _end_

**Author's Note:**

> *Lyrics from "I'm on Fire".. the one by Bat for Lashes, not Springsteen. No offense, Springsteen.  
> **Coup de foudre - love at first sight  
> *** Kyou wa densha de.. - sentence fragment that translates roughly into,"Today on a train.." Also a song lyric. I was young and it was three years ago. Shush.


End file.
